Armen Gharabegian - Protocol 7

They gave each other a firm, lingering hug, then she pulled Simon across the crowded room to a tiny table she had already claimed as her own. She ordered without asking-she knew what he wanted. She always did.

“Well,” she said as they settled in. “You look rather awful, don’t you?”

“Why, thank you.”

“Oh,” she said, brushing it aside, “it’s the least you deserve.”

He shook his head, trying his best to play the part of the bewildered, aggrieved best friend. “Sammy, I have no idea what Fae was talking-”

“Oh, please. We haven’t spoken in days. I know something’s up.”

Before he could respond, the waitress arrived and slid drinks in front of each of them. “Here’s your Glenn Royale and vermouth,” she said, smiling at them both-and especially at Simon. “A late lunch, then?”

“No,” Samantha said firmly. “We’re just here to talk. Aren’t we, Simon?”

Simon nodded, grateful for the interruption. He reached for his wallet, but she put a hand on his arm.

“Please,” she said. “I insist.”

He knew better than to argue. He simply took a sip of his scotch and watched her pay for the round as he turned his story over in his head.

Sitting here, looking at her, he knew that avoidance was pointless. Samantha had a keen sense of always knowing what was wrong with Simon before he ever had a chance to explain. It was true, he sometimes went into his own world and didn’t feel the need to share much of anything with anyone. But Samantha knew that and refused to accept it. She had learned long ago that she could force him to tell her anything she wanted to know and more-even if he wasn’t cooperative, she would simply bully or mislead his friends and even his AIs to get what she wanted.

Which, I admit, I rather appreciate, he told himself. That’s what best friends are for.

When it came to Sammy, he realized, honesty wasn’t only the best policy, it was the only choice.

“Honestly, Sammy,” he said, “I don’t know where to begin.”

She took a sip of her drink and looked at him for a moment from under her long lashes. “It’s okay, Fitzpatrick,” she said, smiling. “Just start at the top.”

He cleared his throat and did exactly that, beginning with the moment that Jonathan Weiss showed up at the door with a message from his father. As he spoke, slowly and deliberately, the crowd around them grew even larger and louder, and Samantha had to move closer to him just to hear him clearly. Simon didn’t mind that a bit.

They’d become so engrossed with each other that neither of them noticed the stranger sitting in a far corner of the Stanton. The man watched them steadily, unmoved by the noise and the shifting crowd. He was much too far away to hear a single word, but his eyes remained focused on their faces-and especially their lips.

Simon’s story went on for more than an hour. The stranger watched as Samantha reacted with surprise, then shock. As she placed her drink on the table and put both hands to her mouth in surprise and fascination, the stranger knew: his mission had to be completed tonight.

Much later, as the late afternoon crowd began to thin, the stranger in a tailored grey overcoat made his way across the room. Simon was still talking, and Samantha was so absorbed she didn’t even look up as the man passed by their table and left the pub.

A few minutes later Simon tipped up his glass and drained the last of his melted ice with a hint of scotch in it. He sighed deeply, relieved and concerned at the same time, and looked around the room. He had to smile. The place was nearly empty. “Wow. The dinner rush will be starting any time, and I have another engagement this evening.”

“We have another engagement this evening, you mean.”

Simon sighed. “Sammy, I-”

“I thought we had settled this, Simon. I’m coming. It’s settled.”

He thought about arguing with her. And he knew how pointless it would be.

He nodded. “All right then. Andrew and I will swing by and pick you up.”

“Good.”

“…But maybe we should be heading out.”

Samantha didn’t respond. She was staring into the distance, clearly stunned by all he had told her. Suddenly her eyes snapped to his, focusing sharply.

“What do you need from me?” she asked.

“Nothing,” he said. “Please.” He had told her everything-more than he had intended-but he was not about to invite her along.

She sat back in her chair and looked up toward the ceiling thinking deeply. The waitress came by again with a contrived smile.

“We about ready to square up on the second round, then?”

Samantha almost jumped, as if she was surprised at the young woman’s presence. “Oh. Of course.” He stood and begrudgingly let Samantha pay the bill, then helped her with her coat. The scent of her perfume was even stronger as she came close to him.

I can’t put her in danger, he told himself, glad that he had avoided telling her the details of his plan. I just can’t. He reached for the door to the street, but Samantha put a restraining hand on his arm.

“Simon.”

Something in her voice made him turn to her. Her amazing eyes looked directly into his. “Simon, you know I would do anything.”

He forced a comforting smile. “I know, Sam. But…I don’t want you to get into a situation that you can’t pull out of-that no one can pull you out of.”

She nodded, seeming to understand, and they moved into the chilly London evening.

A cab was waiting just down the street in one direction; Sam’s flat was a short walk the opposite way. She gave him a brief, almost distracted hug and a kiss on the cheek. “We’ll talk later, young man,” she said with mock severity. “And I am going to Ryan’s.” He started to object, but she put up a hand, having none of it. “No. I’m going. End of story.”

Simon shrugged and surrendered. He would have to find some kind of home-front role for her, something to keep her involved but out of danger. “All right,” he said.

She turned and strolled up the street toward her flat. Simon watched her for a moment, thoughts whirling, then turned and ducked into the cab.

The stranger watched them part from a full block away. He saw it all on a simple handheld device that viewed the scene from above, an amalgam of images from CCTV, private cams, and eyes-down satellites that only he and his superior could access. He saw them part in crisp, clear images, unobstructed by clouds or shadows. A touch of the controls, and he continued to follow Samantha, allowing Simon to climb into his taxi and disappear from view…for the moment.

The special communicator implanted in the canal of his left ear murmured to life. He heard a voice-the voice of his superior, the voice he never wanted to hear-speaking clearly and calmly.

Three short sentences; three simple commands. And then the voice was gone.

The stranger nodded his head. It was all very clear. He needed to retrieve enough information to plant the asset precisely at the right place and at the right time with the team’s journey.

There was work to be done.

5,732 Feet Below the Surface

The room was too bright.

The man on the table could see nothing but light, could feel nothing but pain. The person standing over him had turned away for a moment, whispering to himself, touching his ear…but now he turned back and leaned forward.

“What do you know about the Nest?” He asked. “What are you not telling me?”

The man on the table said nothing. The standing man made a harsh, frustrated sound-almost a growl.

“Tell me,” he ordered. “Tell me everything.”

“No.”

The man standing above him clutched at his throat. His fingers tightened. His lips were only an inch from the man’s ear. “Tell. Me. Everything.”